


Dat Ass

by waywardrenegade



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, and geno's just sweet, it's background tazer/sid just fyi, kaner's a deadspin celebrity, ovi's a perv, tazer's an angry elf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Russians and Patrick Kane walk into a bar. It sounds like the punch line to a shitty joke. Meanwhile, Jonny catches a flight for a booty call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dat Ass

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really not sure why this is a thing. I guess I just have a lot of repressed feelings about Russians, vodka, and hockey asses. This also the second attempt at this because MS Word is a stupid shit and conveniently forgot to save the first (and better) version.
> 
> P.S. I suck at titles, you know, in case that wasn't obvious.

Two Russians and Patrick Kane walk into a bar. It sounds like the punch line to a shitty joke. Well, minus the fact that Pat’s sandwiched between their stupidly big bodies, and he’s not so much walking as being forced along like a petulant child. Which he definitely is not, fuck you very much.

Ovi and Geno were spending time together after a Pens/Caps game because apparently when you’re foreign it’s totally cool to hang out with your biggest rival after one of your most important match ups of the season. Patrick tries to imagine a world where he and Kesler walk around Chicago, maybe even eat some cheeseburgers and shoot the shit after Pat beats him in a hard fought battle because he wouldn’t lost to someone with hair like that. Yeah, that’s never gonna happen, he decides.

The only reason Pat’s in Pittsburgh to begin with is because Tazer kept moaning about “something I gotta do” and being simultaneously mopey as hell and all fucking mysterious, and Pat’s a sucker for that kind of shit when it comes to Jonny.

So, they found a few days where the hockey gods had apparently decided to bestow the gift of free time upon them and flew to Pittsburgh for the game. (Patrick would eventually piece together that Tazer’s “thing he had to do” was ogle Sid’s ass up close and in person because apparently he’s in love with that monstrous thing.)

After the game, Jonny disappears, feigning a need to “use the bathroom”, but when the cameras pan the interior of the Penguins’ locker room to interview the captain after their 5-4 victory, Patrick swears he sees Jonny leaning faux casually against Flower’s stall. Whatever fuck him, Pat thinks, and he leaves Jonny at Consol to find his own way back.

Jonny calls him about twenty minutes later, but he’s being his typical, “I don’t know how to act like I’m actually 25 and/or admit I’m pining for Sid the damn Kid”, captainly self, so Pat vacates their ridiculously fancy hotel suite in search of alcohol. What he finds once outside the lobby doors, two Russians apparently chirping each other, self-satisfied grins firmly in place, is far more interesting though.

“Ovechkin, Malkin, the fuck are you doing?” Patrick asks loudly because that’s how one must communicate with such individuals. Shit, he has to be loud to be heard over their back and forth insults. And anyway, bickering Russians tend to be conspicuous, especially someone Geno’s size or with Ovi’s huge ass _personality_ (which truly only rivals the size of Sid’s actual ass).

Pat really just wants them to shut up and stop causing people to stare; Tazer would probably make him do suicides for a week or clean out Duncs’ locker like last time if he ended up on the front page of Deadspin on yet another occasion. Whether it was his fault or not would be irrelevant in Jonny’s mind.

Ovi’s face breaks into a shit eating smirk (which is not too unlike his resting face, if Pat’s being honest), a bit crooked and dumb looking, before he lunges forward and yanks the back of Pat’s mullet roughly, curls all tangled around his thick fingers. Geno goes with the more reserved method of clapping one large hand on his shoulder accompanied by a friendly, “Patrick, hello.”

As such proceedings with Russians, particularly Russian hockey players, tend to go, they end up at a bar. So it turns out Pat was onto something with the idea of booze being a great plan. Patrick gets squished between Ovi, or Sasha as Geno keeps calling him, and Geno/Zhenya. They lapse into gruff Russian every couple minutes, which just makes Pat bewildered, so naturally, he drinks more to compensate.

It was a rather fantastic plan until Ovi suggested they do shots, “see who drink most” he explains, slurring the last syllables so they come out sounding like he’s got a mouth full of mashed potatoes. That could also be due, at least in part, to the handful of teeth he’s currently missing. Because he’s a dick, Ovi also includes a jab at Patrick for being “no match for the sons of Mother Russia”. Geno just chuckles lowly and goes along with their antics, like Pat’s sure he does with Tanger and Nealer sometimes.

“Fuck you, I’m Irish,” is Pat’s reply before knocking back shot after countless shot of burning vodka (which this shit really isn’t fair because isn’t it a fact that vodka is like fucking Russian water or something?) In fact, he manages to down enough that even Ovi becomes tolerable, and Geno’s quiet, subdued voice becomes a lullaby to him as his head falls onto Geno’s burly arm heavily.

Patrick doesn’t remember nodding off, slumped against Geno, but that’s where he comes to a short while later. Ovi and Geno are conversing in hushed tones, and someone’s petting his god awful hair almost affectionately. He’s halfway into a yawn when he locks eyes with Ovi who declares, albeit in garbled, broken English, “Irishman not hold own against Sasha and Zhenya. He come with us now.” Pat kinda spaces out, so he nods without comprehending, which after being on the road with Sharpy and Bur and their shenanigans, he should realize that never turns out well for him.

He’s being jostled, each arm looped around a tipsy Russian’s shoulders, and propelled forward. Pat’s not exactly sure where they’re headed, but it’s not as if he’s in any shape to protest really. That’s probably how he finds himself stumbling toward a king sized bed that definitely isn’t his or Tazer’s before being pushed face first into a plush duvet the color of bitter chocolate.

“Spokoynoy nochi, Patrika,” Geno’s thick voice says into his ear, boozy breath caressing his cheek like an afterthought. The mattress shifts to the left of Pat, absorbing someone’s weight easily, but he’s already pulled so far into sleep that it doesn’t register.

Patrick wakes up in the now almost familiar position of being crammed between husky Russians who reek of vodka, sweat, and musky cologne that Pat’s not entirely sure who’s emanating. His head feels like a bowling ball that’s used at one of those kid’s birthday parties where no one’s ever taught them how to bowl properly so the ball ends up bouncing down the lane with a dull thud against the polished wood. To say he’s hung over would be like saying, “Jonathan Toews is mildly serious” or “Tazer’s ass doesn’t resemble two cantaloupes stuffed into his obscenely tight shorts”.

Patrick’s eyes are crusty in the corners from sleep, and his stupid hair is erratically sticking up as if he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket; he's sure he looks like a hot mess. Oh, and his mouth tastes like ass. He wants a glass of water to rinse the taste out some and to pee because the more he awakens, the more he realizes his bladder’s going to explode soon. Now if only he hadn’t fallen asleep in between two lumps of giant man, both with more mass than Patrick could ever hope to move on his own, he’d be golden.

Very carefully Patrick tries to leverage himself up and out of the tangle of limbs, trying futilely to shove Ovi’s arm from his waist, all the while trying not to knee Geno in the process. It works for like a full minute until Ovi kicks out violently, catching Pat’s shin, and a stream of colorful curses then pours steadily from Patrick’s lips.

The shuffling of the blankets and a drawn out yawn that’s borderline absurd announces Ovi’s return to the living even before he speaks. “Leaving so soon?” Ovi asks salaciously, and how he’s this pervy while a) still hungover and b) the sun hasn’t even fully risen, Patrick’s not entirely sure.

Geno sits up slowly with a dazed expression on his face, mouth slack, and blanket creases etched into his sleep rosy cheeks. He kinda looks adorable, all sleepy and slow motion, but more in the way that giant bears behind thick glass in the zoo are adorable, Patrick thinks briefly.

“Where you go?” Geno mumbles in Patrick’s general direction, eyes still half closed and refusing to open, “Don’t,” he finishes as he wraps his legs around Patrick’s thigh tightly, as he nestles closer against Patrick’s side.

“I gotta piss, man. Come on, let me up,” replies Pat, finally freeing himself from the blanket burrito he’s wrapped in and managing to escape Ovi’s fucking octopus arms. Surprisingly, Geno doesn’t protest further, just disentangles himself and scoots over a little so Patrick can roll out of bed with absolutely no grace at all.

Patrick’s barely made it into the vaguely luxurious hotel bathroom before it dawns on him that he not only got drunk with and slept with (well, like in the most literal sense of the word) two of hockey’s favorite Russians, but that he never came back, so Jonny’s probably worried sick because that’s just Jonny.

After he’s brought several cupped handfuls of water to his dusty mouth, splashed some on his face, and finally, for the love of Gretzky, pissed, Patrick attempts to locate his phone, which who the hell knows where it got to last night.

Turns out it’s in the back pocket of his rumpled jeans, which someone (he’d lay money on Geno) had the decency to at least toss in the general direction of the armchair in the corner, and the display reads 4 missed calls, 3 voicemails, and 5 text messages. All of them are from Jonny. Because that’s a real surprise.

Patrick quietly pads to the door, making sure to snag Ovi’s keycard from the kitchenette counter along the way, and steps out into the hallway to listen to Jonny’s bitching. He knows by now it’s one of those things, like ripping off a band-aid or breaking up with somebody, that’s best done quickly.

“Kaner, you coming back to the hotel tonight? I’m not waiting up, so you’d better let yourself in. Preferably silently,” says a slightly annoyed Jonny in his ear. Pat chuckles because Jonny still acts like his mother on the road, checking in on him and worrying, even though he’s a mostly capable adult.

“Okay idiot, if you end up on Deadspin for whatever stupid shit you’re probably up to right now, I swear to all that is holy in the world I will make you do suicides and clean out Jigsaw’s locker again. We all know what’s growing in there,” angry Jonny rants, not quite verging on his Hulk-mode, and Patrick fucking called it because Jonny’s spectacularly predictable in his punishments even after this long.

Patrick’s almost willing to bet the third message is just an impressive extension of the second, but he listens anyway because it’s Jonny. His foot draws circles in the plush carpet as he waits for Jonny’s voice to berate him since the past two messages have been relatively calm by Jonny standards.

“Hey Pat,” Jonny says in an oddly muted tone, voice a bit rougher than usual, and Jonny never calls Patrick just “Pat”, so he presses the phone closer to his ear because he knows whatever follows is going to be important. “Um, if you don’t come home tonight, that’s okay. Really. I’m good. Call me whenever you’re functioning.” It sounds like there’s an excessive amount of rustling in the background according to Patrick’s way of thinking, and he swears he hears a low voice say something about “can’t believe it” before the message ends.

Pat’s a bit confused because that’s not the Jonny he knows and loves, the one who hollers at him for doing dumb things, but he figures he’s as close to functioning as he’ll be until he gets some coffee, so he thumbs through Jonny’s texts, mostly shortened variations of his voicemails, with the single exception of one message containing nothing but three smiley faces and an exclamation point. And Pat knows that only means one thing: Jonny got laid last night.

“Okay, Tazer, spill. Blonde or brunette? Big tits? Nevermind, knowing you, she was blonde, huge tits, tan, nice legs,” Patrick rushes out in lieu of a greeting the minute Jonny answers. He’s slumped against the hallway wall, stays there for a minute, before sliding his back down and plopping on the soft carpeting as if he were home.

“Kaner, you’re a fucking pig. What if she were sitting next to me right now? You’re on speakerphone, dumbass,” Jonny bitches, probably pulling an epic bitchface in the process. There’s a kind of odd, squeak from Jonny’s end, maybe some sort of indignance, before the unmistakable thump of someone getting hit.

“Uh, everything cool over there, El Capitan?” asks Pat hesitantly. He’s not sure he really wants to know what freaky shit Jonny’s into, you know, other than doing his morning stretches in just his obnoxiously small underwear, sticking his humongous ass right in Patrick’s goddamn face.

“Yeah, uh, everything’s fine,” Jonny replies, voice muffled a bit like he’s trying to speak through someone’s fingers clamped over his mouth. Being the mouthy shit on the team, second to only Shawzy, Pat’s pretty familiar with that phenomenon actually.

A second voice, strangely familiar and decidedly not female, speaks then, “Hey Kaner, I just want you to know that I am neither blonde nor busty at all, but you know how Jonny can be when it comes to letting others talk.”

Patrick’s jaw literally drops then because yeah, he’s currently sitting in the hallway of what looks like a Marriott, in only his boxers and a worn Hawks tee, after a night of binge drinking and snuggling with the sons of Mother Russia, but Jonny, fucking Jonny slept with Sidney fucking Crosby. Sidney Crosby of the Pittsburgh Penguins and shared Candian hockey robot mindset that Jonny’s always trying to deny exists slept with his captain and not in the mostly innocent way Pat slept with Ovi and Geno. Yeah, he’s gonna need a minute.

“Okay, so Crosby, you banged Tazer. Cool, it’s about damn time, but now I need to talk to Jonny. Alone,” Pat manages, adding emphasis on the last word so it won’t be misinterpreted.

“Alright, I understand. See you later, Patrick,” Sid says calmly, probably figuring he’d react this way because pretty much everyone believes he and Tazer are together even though they’re decidedly not, thanks.

“Do not lecture me, Kaner. God only knows the things I’ve learned about you,” Jonny starts, already taking the defensive. Well good, this is the Jonny Patrick can handle because he’s pretty much the same guy that engages in screaming matches on the bench from time to time.

“Dude, relax. I wasn’t. I’m not. I was gonna say congrats on getting that ass actually. Pun heavily intended,” snickers Pat because he’s really 14 and pissing Jonny off is entirely too easy.

Jonny sucks in a big gulp of air, noisily like he always does to just annoy Kaner, before saying awkwardly, “Oh, uh, thanks. So, what did you get up to last night?”

“Me? Nothing much, just got hammered slept with Ovechkin and Malkin. No big deal,” Patrick says nonchalant as fuck. He’s now got his knees drawn to his chin, speaking lowly into the phone so passerby won’t hear his conversation. No use ending up on Deadspin for something someone overheard in a hotel hallway, especially while he’s half naked and still hungover.

The line is silent for almost a full ten seconds before it must sink in what he’s just said because then Jonny’s spluttering a lot and muttering “what the absolute fuck, Pat?” like a mantra. Patrick actually manages to not laugh for like another minute after that before he’s giggling like a teenage girl in sex ed class putting a condom on a unrealistically large banana/penis.

“‘Slept with’, not ‘had sex with’, you total dumbfuck. Don’t go envious rage monster on me now, okay,” consoles Patrick in between panting breaths and choked off laughter. There are actual tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and that’s just beautiful really.

Jonny sighs the sigh of the ever put upon adult in their weird relationship and huffs out an, “I’m not amused, Kaner. Oh, and for the record, Sid and I, yeah we totally had sex. More than once. In your bed.”

Patrick knows he only tacked on the last part because he’s a rude bastard with no regard for others or their space, and he really should have his Canadian-ness revoked for that because aren’t Canadians supposed to be nice and shit?

“So, Sid huh. Let me guess, dat ass?” Pat asks, part teasing, part genuinely curious if Jonny’s fucking literal booty call was the reason they hopped a red eye flight to Pittsburgh after all. He figures Jonny will understand the question because he’s always been good about knowing what Pat means.

“Yeah, dat ass,” confirms a smug Jonny with what can only be considered the spoken version of a smirk. “And speaking of “dat ass”, I’m gonna go get that from the hall for another round. Get your sorry self off the floor of your hotel, because I know that’s where you are, and go snuggle your hungover Russians or something for a few more hours.” Then, Jonny fucking hangs up on him like a self-righteous asshole.

Patrick’s left debating whether or not brain bleach will help rid his over imaginative mind of the visual of Jonny and Sid and their huge asses going at it because that’s not something he wants to picture. Except now that’s all he can think about and just no.

Thankfully, Ovi’s got a stashed bottle of 100 proof Stoli in his suitcase like a stereotypical Russian that will work well considering there’s a good ¾ left. He doesn’t even ask Patrick why when he demands alcohol, and for that, Patrick’s appreciative. Pat vows to only drink a quarter of it, since it is only like 8AM, but he’ll probably buy Ovi another bottle out of sheer gratitude anyway.

Borrowing a few words of Russian from Ovi, mostly swears of course, Pat tips the bottle back and hopes the burn of the booze rids him of the image of two hockey players he knows well, both with beach balls for asscheeks, humping each other on his fucking bed.


End file.
